


(i'm a) Revelation (spreading out before your eyes)

by sevensilvermagpies



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (illadvised), Blow Jobs, Fire, Hate Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, consensual but not necessarily safe, oh yeah baby we're going there, or sane, post c2 ep122, theyre both horny mfs and deserve to have make some questionable sexual choices, trent ikithon's office, warning: eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: The sore reminder in his shoulder every time he moves his arms is proof that now, more than ever, he is dangerous to be around. He wanders in a daze throughout the communal floor, his eyes skittering from one thing to another, unwilling to focus on any singular person or thing. Perhaps, his scared heart wonders, if he looks for too long he will begin to see through them too.Caleb's frustration at the situation needs to go somewhere, and Lucien seems intent on finding him alone.
Relationships: Lucien/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 92





	(i'm a) Revelation (spreading out before your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> So. Episode 122 huh? Bring on the corruption arc.

When they first see Lucien after the Somnovum sinks its unwelcome way into their flesh he simply laughs in delight and turns away without a care. It is disappointingly anticlimactic. 

Beau takes to wearing her hand wraps at all times, Caleb simply shrugs his shirt and jacket back on to eat at the breakfast table. Conversation is stilted in a way it has not been since they were first thrust together by the hands of fate and chance, words pass between them in short bursts that only causes the mournful silence to hang heavier in the spaces left. Oh how Caleb almost wishes Lucien had boasted, infuriatingly smug that his trick had worked. Then perhaps they could’ve come together to lick their wounds at being tricked by the proud creature living in their friend. Instead fear breeds suspicion in the warm, damp depths of their friendship.

The tension only ever seems to grow from then on, the deep snow left in yesterday’s wake that almost prevents them from opening the door in the morning shining no light on the mood. The whipping snowstorm that still rages around them is no help either. The Nein surrender to the Tomb Taker's casual silence and simply shiver and squint into the gray mass that rises ahead. Above them the edge of the pass looms like a silent watcher, gazing over them with heavy judgement. Caleb would not be surprised if it sprouted glowing red eyes.

Lucien turns to press on through the thick fog that rolls quickly in, like a steel door slowly shutting over them. It is the sheer and obvious pointlessness of the exercise tips Caleb from apathy into action. He turns on a sixpence, already finished with the day, and crouches down to mutter the words now so familiar. His movements pass beneath the radar of Lucien’s notice but the sweet and bitter tinge of his magic does not, cannot. 

“And yet he does not turn back,” the voice of his frustration mutters in the back of his traitorous mind, “his stubbornness and stupidity drive him on.” 

The Tomb Takers don't immediately dive back through the door like Jester or Veth, but nor do they follow Lucien the few difficult steps he takes into the coming storm. Instead they simply wait, in bated breaths, glancing between Lucien and Caleb. 

Lucien, though only a few steps off, is almost completely obscured by the whirling winds. The temptation to usher the other’s inside and leave him to walk off into nothingness burns in Caleb’s mind. Luckily the choice is taken from his hands as the figure stoops to grab something - though what he cannot guess - then turns back towards the torchlight of the huddled group.

The Nein silently and unanimously spend most of the first morning, if not directly next to each other, then in the same room together resting, recuperating, and trying to wrap their heads around their new reality. But Caleb can’t help but notice the others hide themselves away from him and Beau to converse sometimes, eyes flicking anxiously over when their voices rise too loud.  It pokes at the sore part of his heart that is still convinced he will inevitably be left behind, but the sore reminder in his shoulder every time he moves his arms proof that now, more than ever, he is dangerous to be around. Now he is less the barely contained explosion of when they first met, but more a slowly spreading cancer, eating away at their privacy. Perhaps it would sting less if he and Beau sequestered together, but Yasha is reluctant to leave her side or let go of her hand. Though the eye itself is covered by Beau’s sleeve, Yasha’s hand clasps her palm tight, like she could pop out the eyeball if she squeezed long and hard enough.

Lunch comes and goes with little fanfare. He wanders in a daze throughout the communal floor, his eyes skittering from one thing to another, unwilling to focus on any singular person or thing. Perhaps, his scared heart wonders, if he looks for too long he will begin to see through them too.

Eventually he begins to wander up to the higher levels when even Yasha leaves Beau’s side and drifts towards the group. Veth moves to follow but he placates her, mutters his trust that she will do what’s best for the both of them, like she always has tried to, that she is needed more here. Her return to Jester’s side is reluctant, but swift. Not even Frumpkin is with him, and his neck feels cold with absence. But he is doing important work warming Beau’s lap, as she stares at her jumbled notes in her far corner of the room, and ignores each angry tear that drips onto the page. 

After a brief time simply floating in the void of the tower’s centre and furiously pretending to himself that he doesn’t feel the echoes of last night’s dream all about him, he finds himself up on the eighth floor, floating gently between the doors. The floor below him slides shut, setting his feet back on the floor with a gentle jolt. Each wooden slab around him is the same except for the small etched number, each tugging at a different heartstring. They all stare down at him, whorls in the grain judging his careful deliberation as he chooses which scab over his soul to pick at.

Eventually he sets his palm on the rough wood of five and gives a gentle shove. The stone fireplace, crackling to life as he enters, the looming oil paintings of landscapes in dour blacks and greens, the neat bookshelves of books all bound in the same brown leather, is all as perfect as his memory. He rips off his coat and throws it without looking across the desk he knows will be exactly three paces to the right, where it lands with a soft thump, scattering papers. The mess doesn't matter, he thinks bitterly, stepping on the few that float in front of his feet as he strides towards the fireplace. They would mostly be blank, he’s sure, since he was never given much permission to read his tutors oh-so-precious work. 

At a loss for what to do, yet not wanting to contemplate looking at the leather chair he knows sits proudly behind the desk for fear of having recreated the memory too precisely, he grabs the poker blindly from its hook and stabs out at the fire. It spits sparks back at him furiously. As his hand falls back to the side he can see a small rip in the fabric of his sleeve, like his other hand had been worrying away at it unconsciously, picking and tearing at the fabric to get to the skin underneath. Propping the poker against the wall he tears at his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders so it hangs bunched from his waist. Twisting so it is illuminated by the light of the fire, he pushes at the meat of his arm, watching the dull red of the eye in his flesh pull and twist with his skin.

A sudden thump behind him has him twirling, snatching the poker up in a terrible imitation of a defensive stance. For a second he is back in the real office at the academy, and not his own tower. A lavender hand reaches out to push the poker down, meeting no resistance. 

“In your own world?” 

Why is he up here? Caleb closes his eyes and turns in silence to hang the poker up by the wall. Here to try and shake his guard most likely - there’s no need to ask why. Or how, considering they’re now linked. Not that seeing the book wasn’t worth it, one calculated risk among many in Caleb’s life. Unfortunate and inopportune, but not necessarily unexpected. He can hear his unwanted guest wandering around behind him, the quiet pad of footsteps and the soft rustle of paper. When he turns back Lucien is rising from a crouch, holding one of the spilled pieces of paper in his hand. His movements are controlled, a perfect imitation of a careless gesture. Too perfect. Even the way he holds up his hands in a placating gesture is infuriatingly aggressive in its control.

“I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement, you and I. You’ve already taken a step towards us. Let me at least illuminate the rest of the path so that you can see what it is you’re denying yourself.”

Caleb straightens his back sharply, putting them eye to eye, “and you will teach me all you know, will you?” He can almost feel the temperature dropping with every syllable, knows his face is a mask of stone. “Give away your precious knowledge as a gift.” The last word is almost spat, a final snap of emotion breaking through. Lucien just laughs and steps closer still. 

“Oh don’t worry. That would be a disappointing gift I’m sure.”

The moment swirls around him, a haze of frustration blurring his senses. Frustration at himself, at Lucien, at the whole situation. This close he can almost see through the haze of the other’s loose shirt. Lucien is neither hard muscle nor soft fat but sharp and sinewy strength, almost as thin as Caleb himself, whose body refuses to look anything other than malnourished despite his better circumstances. With every new observation, Lucien inches closer, till Caleb can almost taste the sour tang of pride on his breath. 

“I know you want something else from me.”

The hard line of the tiefling presses insistently against him, skin erupting with goosebumps at the sensation of closeness, til all he can see is purple skin and deep red eyes, and an eyebrow cocking in smug pride.

“M-olly.” 

He doesn't register what has left his lips till it has already escaped, but Lucien doesn’t frown or show anger. Simply pulls back with an annoyed pout twisting his lips, more petulant child than chosen enactor of the end of days. Caleb poorly stifles a snort of amusement the mental image brings, before the sudden furious desire to catch that lip between his teeth that shakes him to his core. The thought is almost enough to chase away the burn of shame across his cheeks. Lucien hisses in annoyance at his escaped smile, clawing for the upper hand. 

“So, this is how we’re doing it. Bren.”

The fire in the fireplaces flares with his intake of breath as he stumbles backwards, but not away, dragging that thrice damned tiefling with him. Both of them thud against the hard wood mantle as one, breaths mingling as they simply exist for a second, teetering on the precipice of no return, before they crash together. 

It’s sharp and uncomfortable; teeth clack and spit drips. It’s uncouth and uncoordinated and deeply unglamourous but it pulls out a primal need in Caleb that had him snarling like it was he who carried infernal heritage. The hand in Lucien’s hair clenches, tugging little hitching whines from his lips. For a second the wild panting exchange of breath banks the desire. With one last tug on that petulant lip he breaks free, pulling away but taking the iron tang of blood on his tongue with him. Blue eyes meet rich red, neither tinged with regret but, perhaps if Caleb squints, he can imagine a hint of trepidation in the lines of the other’s face. 

Lucien’s hand is clamped around his arm, over the eye, digging into the flesh with little pricks of pain-pleasure. Caleb’s gaze drops to the open collar of Lucien’s shirt. He reaches out, running one dull fingernail around the outline of the matching eye that stares up at him from Lucien’s neck. Unsure of what possesses him to do so he leans forward, pressing his lips over the eye, licking a broad stripe across the blood red mark. It tastes dull and salty-sweet with sweat - no different from what he imagines the rest of Lucien’s skin tastes like. But Caleb is nothing if not a thorough believer in the scientific method, and lets his mouth trail down to the juncture between neck and shoulder, listening to the swallowed pants above him. No difference. He meanders his way back up, till he can seal his mouth back across the taunting eye and bite down. Lucien yelps and clenches tighter, scratching thin red lines across his deltoid before pulling his head away.

“Careful! Or you might give me some power you will regret.” 

Caleb rolls his eyes at the weak taunt, “That’s blood magic, not sex magic.”

“Same difference,” Lucien shrugs, reaching up to wipe a smear of blood off Caleb’s curled lip, “but I didn’t realise we were having sex, you should’ve said something. I would’ve tried harder.”

Biting back a retort behind clenched teeth Caleb drags their hips together in a rough glide, pulling Lucien onto his toes against him, desire flaring in both of them. He presses down with all the force of surprise, shoving the other to his knees. A brief thought of thanks to Jester for insisting he brought breeches with buttons not laces passed through his mind as he thumbs them open with the other hand. Below him, Lucien opens his mouth to make a smart comment and Caleb takes the opportunity to fill it with himself instead.

The quiet crackle of logs heightens to a roar in the busy silence, but the sharp prickle of heat against his bare skin only makes his pulse race faster. A lone sapling in the centre of an all consuming forest fire, bracketed by infernal heat and his own arcane flame. Lucien’s mouth is hot and wet; almost too hot, his tongue a candle flare flickering up and down his length. 

His breath punches out in a sudden groan, the world tilting and sharpening to the sensation of rough horn in his grip and the hard press of the mantelpiece against his back. A harsh tug drags his cock from Lucien's unrelenting mouth, then a burning hand tightens around him twisting once, twice, nails dragging sharp in sharp flicks of pain across his prick. Three, four, five seconds stretch out into a lifetime, till the thread snaps and his knees surrender to the trembles that shake his hands and his breath, it is only Lucien’s lightning fast reflexes that save him from tumbling wholesale back into the flames. 

His hands unclench from dark hair, falling away with a few silken strands still tangled around fingers, as he lowers himself to sprawl across the floor next to a still kneeling Lucien, reaching up to vaguely pat one tattooed cheek. 

“Mmh.. See I knew you could be a good little _Teufel_.”

“Oh I think that earned me something more than another night of sleep and food which you would be giving us anyways.”

“ _Mein Gott_ you are demanding.” 

Lucien sniffs, “says you.” 

Caleb doesn't think he can use his mouth this soon, not to reciprocate in the same way at least, but drags shaky fingers through the mess on his stomach, pushing it down between his thighs. Above him Lucien seems almost entranced, his urgency suspended for a second as he watches Caleb smooth himself across his skin. When he’s done what he can, he reaches greedy hands out and pulls Lucien's hips closer, drawing his cock between his thighs with a soft groan. As soon as it’s clear that this is as much effort Caleb is willing to put in right at this moment, Lucien starts to move, slow at first till he finds his rhythm, speeding up and slowing down in patterns indecipherable to Caleb, chasing his own pleasure. 

For a few moments he just lies there floating on the soft movements and sounds of Lucien pressing onto him, before the lack of direct heat from the fire on his back makes itself known and he begins to shiver. Lucien tuts, and the disappointment in his tone only makes Caleb tremble harder as his skin cools to the temperature of the smooth stone hearth beneath him. With swiftness and without a care Lucien simply rolls Caleb, hip, shoulder, elbow cracking onto hard stone as he’s unceremoniously shifted to face the fire, Lucien’s body settling in behind him and settling back into his rhythm.

The heat is back, and all encompassing, and Caleb can’t help but give into it again, rising to the occasion. The fire now is a mere foot from his face, the hiss and spit of wood just as present in his ear as the groans and pants of the tiefling at his back. He takes himself in hand, the prickling of heat against the skin of his arm mirrored in the pricking of sharp teeth at the nape of his neck. Warmth rises like a tide, rolling out in waves across them as one, then t’other, looses themself in the void of pleasure.

Some minutes later Caleb comes back to himself. Nine minutes and nine seconds if he’s being exact, and he always is. The satisfied discomfort of his limbs is echoed in the other’s awkward sprawl half across the hearthrug and half atop him. He pulls the mutual threat they pose to each other around them like an old, familiar quilt, tilting his head to peer at the deep red eye that glows just beneath Lucien’s collarbone, tracing his eyes in a soothing spiral across the swirling feather tattoo that surrounds it. The red glow of Lucien’s eyes lights his nerves, screaming danger and temptation. He feels more than sees one clawed hand reach out, drifting gently across his body to hover across his own brand. It pauses, almost as if to ask permission - and the thought of Lucien asking permission would make Caleb laugh if he wasn't so tired - before setting over, rubbing gently. 

It is a deceptive gentleness, and one that Caleb finds more annoying than soothing, a mockery of past kindnesses. Ones that certainly don’t belong in this ashy afterglow. He fights the urge to get up and walk away. A Lucien here means no Lucien elsewhere, and he doesn’t want to give him free reign to explore these rooms. He doesn’t want to be alone either, the traitorous voice of his heart mutters in the back of his mind, even the arms of an enemy are better than none at all. 

He doesn't sleep, for all that energy seems to have deserted him, but slowly he sees Lucien settle, eyes almost vacant, entranced by the dying flames of the fire behind Caleb’s shoulder. And his mind wanders of its own accord, deep within the red of Lucien's eyes, winding along the dangerous passage of thought that turns towards the twisting knowledge of Aeor.

**Author's Note:**

> Caleb can have a little evil purple dick, as a treat. He deserves it.
> 
> Please do not attempt to have sex inches from a unprotected fire in real life, nor fail to use proper lubrication. But this is fiction and I can get away with it.
> 
> Thanks ever so much to my beta Lofty (who's a campaign 1 person but read this through anyway, you're a star.)  
> Title from I am the City by ABBA.


End file.
